Lost in the Storm
by CMPerry
Summary: A case in South Dakota is complicated by a violent storm, and a terrifying experience forces Emily Prentiss to re-evaluate her feelings for her Unit Chief.
1. Airborne

The jet shook and rattled as it battled through the storm clouds, while the BAU attempted to prepare for their case in South Dakota. Aaron Hotchner returned from the front of the plane, holding tightly to whatever he could find as the plane shuddered again.

"We've hit an unexpected storm," he said, addressing the rest of the BAU. "The captain says we've to expect some more turbulence." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Hotch was thrown sideways, only just managing to stay upright by grabbing the back of Rossi's chair. The cabin rattled, the lights flickered, but after a few seconds, everything steadied. Hotch sat down, belting himself in firmly and picking up the case file.

"Okay," he sighed, "Andrew Ford has abducted and killed at least eleven children in the last year, alternating his kills between South Dakota and Nebraska, and he's been gradually escalating. The bodies have never been found but his M.O. is always the same; he breaks into the family home at night, takes the child and leaves a number written on the wall. At the first crime scene it was the number one, at the second crime scene, the number two, and so on up to eleven which was found at yesterday's crime scene." The plane gave a violent jolt and Prentiss gripped tighter to the edge of the leather chair.

"If the bodies haven't been found, how do we know the kids are dead?" she asked.

"Because at each crime scene he leaves a polaroid of his previous victim, clearly dead," said Hotch. "Not to mention the fact he's already been in prison for the murder of his father." Prentiss saw her feeling of disgust and horror reflected on her colleagues' faces as they looked down at the picture of Ford paperclipped to the front of their files, with his wide face, cropped blonde hair and lifeless blue eyes.

"Leaving the numbers and the photographs makes it seem like he's proud of how many kids he's killed; he's keeping count while also making sure we know it's the same guy," said Morgan, his voice level despite his own fingers gripping the armrest as the plane shuddered again and Prentiss's stomach lurched as the jet dipped in altitude.

"But there's every chance the numbers are just a ploy to distract us from the real death toll," Reid said, the only one of them who seemed completely calm in the turbulent weather.

"I know," Hotch said, gravely.

"Guys." JJ's voice was sombre as she looked around from the long sofa at the back of the plane, her phone held to her ear. "Another kid just went missing from South Dakota, a little girl."

"Two in the same state? They're sure it's our Unsub?" asked Hotch.

"The number twelve was written on the wall, and he left a polaroid of the last victim, Deacon Yates, on the nightstand." she said.

"He's escalating much faster than we anticipated," said Rossi."Or completely devolving."

"How long 'til we land?" asked Prentiss, looking up from her file anxiously.

"An hour, but then it's another hour to get to the police department," said Hotch. Prentiss met his eye and they exchanged the same unsettled look.

"What?" asked JJ.

"He's escalating too fast," Prentiss said, flicking through the papers in front of her. "Unless the local P.D. magically catches him…" She trailed off.

"What?" JJ asked again. This time it was Hotch who answered her, his dark eyes troubled.

"She'll be dead before we land."

* * *

When they made it to the Police Department, their fears were confirmed. The eight-year-old girl, Maisie Graham, was dead. The team walked past the girl's family, who were grouped together in the dim bullpen, holding each other, beside themselves with grief. Prentiss watched the group sorrowfully as she walked past, unable to imagine the kind of pain they were going though. Hotch was walking by her side, but he couldn't even look at the broken family; he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, but Prentiss saw the colour drain slightly from his face as he seemed to be trying not to picture something similar happening to his own son.

They all gathered in the lead detective's office, a small, grey-walled room, and quick filled each other in on the details they knew.

"This is the first time we've got a real lead," said Detective Fuller, a grey haired, slightly haggard looking man, as he sat down at his scuffed desk and turned his laptop to face them. "As you know, Ford usually leaves the polaroid at the next crime scene so we know he's killed the child, but this time he sent it directly to us from a cell phone we tracked to an abandoned building outside of town."

"Nah, that's way too easy," Morgan said, immediately. "After a year of evading the cops and leaving spotless crime scenes, he wouldn't make such a stupid mistake that would lead us straight to him."

"Unless he wants to be caught," suggested Prentiss. "Sending the picture here would suggest that he's not intending to take another child, otherwise he would have left the picture at his next abduction site instead."

"One thing's for sure," said Hotch, "he won't want to be arrested. Withholding the locations of the bodies and preventing these families from having closure is how he gets off. I think it's more likely he's luring us in so that he can end it all. While I agree with Morgan that he's probably not there at all, we should be cautious; it may be a trap." The detective watched their exchange with concern, before calling in the rest of the department to brief them.

"Ford knows we're onto him now," Hotch said once the police officers had assembled. "We think he may be devolving which makes him twice as dangerous. He will almost definitely be armed, and he is tall and physically very fit, so be careful. If we find him, he will most likely try to force law enforcement to kill him rather than allow himself to be arrested. For the sake of these twelve families, we need to bring him in alive. It's the only chance we have to give them any peace. Let's go."

* * *

The sharp rain stung Prentiss's face as she stepped out of the SUV and into the storm. She looked up, barely able to open her eyes against the gale, but she could make out the shell of an apartment block with scaffolding propping up its windowless walls. Each floor had a large balcony reaching out from its west side, and from what she could see through the holes in the edifice, there was a maze of walls inside, separating the unfinished rooms and providing plenty of places for an Unsub to lurk.

The BAU and the officers split into teams to cover the building as quickly as possible, ensuring there was no escape for Andrew Ford. Prentiss and Hotch took the top floor of the building, running as quietly as they could up the concrete stairs, guns raised.

The wind howled through the empty window frames of the top floor, making sheets of plastic inflate and deflate, like great lungs attached to the walls. Hotch glanced at her and indicated over her shoulder to the corridor on the left. She nodded in understanding, slipped around the corner and walked cautiously down the hallway. On reaching the room at the end, she whipped around the door to find it clear. But as she stepped further in, she saw a large piece of plastic hanging by the window, a tall shadow just visible behind it. She readjusted her grip on the gun, crept forward, feeling her mouth turn dry, her hands cold. She reached out for the sheet and pulled it back swiftly, finding nothing but a folded tarp and stepladder leaning against the wall. She exhaled, unaware she had been holding her breath, and she felt her hands tingling as the circulation returned to her extremities and the adrenaline level in her blood dipped again.

She turned from the room to look for Hotch, keeping her gun raised until she reached the opposite end of the floor and found him standing in the middle of an unfinished living room. There was a large glass door leading out onto one of the sizable balconies, but the panes had long since shattered, and they now lay strewn across the floor in little crystals that shivered and glittered in the howling wind.

"It's clear," Hotch said, shaking his head. "Why would he lure us here for no reason?" Prentiss was about to voice her own frustration when she looked over Hotch's shoulder, her eye caught by another of the plastic sheets hanging from the wall, another tall shape standing behind it, but this time the tall shape moved.

There was no time to warn Hotch before Ford had leapt from his hiding spot and grabbed Hotch around the neck, pressing a gun to his temple.

"Put the gun down," he hissed into Hotch's ear. He did as he was told, and Ford kicked it across the floor, far out of reach of either agent. Prentiss kept her gun raised steadily, but Ford was shielding his own substantial body behind Hotch and she couldn't get a clear shot.

"It's over, Ford," Prentiss said. "You'll never get out of here alive if you don't cooperate. Put the gun down and maybe we can see about striking a deal."

"A deal?" he repeated, with a dry laugh. "Let me guess, I give you the locations of my victims and you make sure my _lifetime_ in prison is just a little less dismal."

"You'd be surprised at what we can do for you," she said, fighting to keep her tone detached as she saw the colour drain from Hotch's face, Ford's arm gripping ever tighter around his throat.

"That's very tempting, agent, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline. I've had such a great time with those little kiddies this year. Might as well go out on a high," he said, and Prentiss could just make out a smirk on the two inches of his broad face that she could see behind Hotch's head. His eyes never left her, as if daring her to make a move so he would have an excuse to put a bullet into Hotch's brain. He began to drag Hotch backwards by the neck towards the balcony, and Hotch struggled against the much stronger man, his heels leaving long tracks in the glass-littered floor as he was pulled towards the railing.

"Prentiss, take the shot," Hotch choked as Ford pulled him closer to the edge of the balcony. The wind picked up, screaming through the holes in the walls as she stepped forward onto the balcony, her hair whipping across her face. Ford and Hotch were too close; she couldn't hit one without hitting the other.

"I can't!"

Hotch was pulling in vain against the Unsub's arm, fighting for breath, losing consciousness. Ford hit the railing, taking his eyes off Prentiss for the first time to look behind him at the six-storey drop.

"This'll bring me up to an even forty. A fitting end, don't you think, Agent Prentiss?" he said as he leaned back over the rail.

"Emily!"


	2. Close

A second later, Prentiss saw Hotch's struggling hands fall limp as he faded into unconsciousness, Ford's thick arm starting to pull him over the rail by the throat without resistance. Finally, with no other choice, she pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot cracked through the moaning air, but the cool smile didn't leave Ford's face. Blood began to stream down Hotch's shoulder and arm, and she froze in horror. Her body went cold and the breath disappeared from her lungs. As if in slow motion, Ford fell backwards, dragging Hotch with him, but Prentiss raced forward and grabbed Hotch by the bulletproof vest, and Ford's hand slipped from Hotch as he plummeted from the balcony. As he fell, Prentiss saw the bullet hole in his neck and the river of blood that had soaked both him and Hotch in a matter of seconds. Even from where she stood, six floors up in the middle of a storm, Prentiss heard the sound of Ford's body crack as he hit the ground. She was still holding Hotch upright by his vest; he was barely conscious and his knees were buckled, almost all of his weight on Prentiss.

"Hotch?" She used all of her strength to turn him and prop him against the wall. "Aaron," she said, grabbing his face in her hand, and using the other to stop him falling forwards. "Aaron, say something." He seemed to hear her voice, and suddenly he took a sharp breath and opened his brown eyes. He stared at her breathlessly for a second before straightening himself up with one hand on the balcony railing. He took a few deep breaths and Prentiss was surprised to see a weak smile on his pale lips.

"Nice shot," he croaked. She let out a small laugh that was verging on a sob, and Hotch pulled her tightly into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his back and rested her head on his chest, and they remained in that position for some time, looking over the balcony at the emergency services swarming Ford's body, both of them too shocked and relieved to be concerned that they were overstepping professional boundaries. It was only when Morgan and Rossi came through the archway into the room that they finally stepped apart.

"What happened?" Morgan asked.

"Ford nearly pulled me over the balcony with him," Hotch said, his voice hoarse.

"You're bleeding," Rossi said, nodding at Hotch's arm.

"I hit you?" Prentiss asked, noticing the long tear on the shoulder of his white shirt and an expanding patch of fresh blood.

"It's mostly Ford's blood, you only grazed me." Hotch said.

"Oh Hotch, I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be," Hotch insisted, inspecting the wound with little concern. "That was a hell of a shot, Emily, I'd be dead if it weren't for you." Rossi and Morgan exchanged looks of mixed admiration and curiosity as if they wanted to ask for details but knew it wasn't the time or the place. All four agents turned at the sound of more footsteps on the stairs to see a couple of paramedics appear on the landing.

"Come on you two," Rossi said. "You should get checked out."

"I'm fine," they said in unison.

"You're both in shock," Rossi insisted, "and you need that graze seen to," he added to Hotch. "No arguments."

Prentiss kept her arm around Hotch as they descended the stairs, under the pretence that she was supporting him, when in reality she wasn't sure her trembling legs would get her to the bottom.

* * *

Soon after, Hotch and Prentiss sat side by side in the back of the ambulance, both wrapped in blankets that were meant for shock, but were more useful against the driving rain. Reid was standing just outside, his long hair plastered to his forehead, and he was looking at Hotch and Prentiss expectantly, as if he had just said something and was waiting for an answer.

"What?" Hotch asked, raising his voice over the wind and the approaching rumble of thunder.

"I said, there's no way we can fly in this," he half shouted. "What do you want to do?"

"We'll get a hotel tonight and see what the situation is like tomorrow." Reid nodded and hurried to the relative shelter of the apartment wall to make a phone call, presumably to Garcia.

With a little help from their technical analyst, they moved from their Bureau-approved lodgings to a luxurious hotel and spa for the night. It was close enough to the airport for easy access the next day, but far enough away from civilisation that there was nothing but trees and hills surrounding them. Hotch and Emily had insisted that they weren't taken to hospital, and the whole team arrived at their new lodgings just as it was beginning to get dark. If it hadn't been for the wind howling through the trees and the rain pelting painfully down onto their skin, it would have been idyllic.

They checked in, and Prentiss and JJ headed up to their enormous twin room, equipped with a bathroom that was the same size, if not bigger than the room itself. Prentiss changed out of her rain-soaked, blood-spattered clothes, brushed her teeth in front of obscenely large mirror and let down her hair, which now lay around her shoulders, slightly wavy and still a little damp from the storm. When she was sure JJ wasn't going to come in, she dropped her composed façade and gripped the edges of the sink, taking several long, trembling breaths and trying to stop her hands from shaking. She looked up at her reflection, and saw the fear in her dark eyes, like an imprint of the ordeal on the balcony seared onto her face. She straightened up, reapplied her light-hearted expression and left the bathroom to join JJ.

* * *

The team congregated in the hotel bar that evening, sitting in a semi-circle of sofas and chairs around the grand fireplace. Despite the high ceilings and the wind rattling the windows, it was warm inside the old building. Prentiss's hair was now completely dry, and the chill that seemed to have sunk into her bones that afternoon was beginning to dissipate, although it was more than just the weather that had left her tense and shaking. She was curled on the sofa next to Hotch, trying to engage with the conversation, but her mind kept wandering to the families that were never going to find out where their children were buried now that Ford was dead. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn't notice her knees resting against Hotch's leg. Either he hadn't noticed or he didn't mind, but regardless she shifted back in her seat and curled a little tighter, losing herself in her thoughts again, occasionally roused from her reverie by the lights flickering in complaint at the weather.

"Do you think Ford was telling the truth?" Rossi asked. The name brought Prentiss's full attention back to the conversation.

"About what?" asked Morgan.

"About Hotch being his 40th victim. 39 instead of 12 is a huge discrepancy, we can't have been that wrong, can we?"

"It's possible," said Reid. "We still don't know exactly when his first kill was after his father, and we already predicted that the numbers at the crime scenes were a countermeasure to throw us off his real total. There could easily have been that many, maybe more."

"Those poor families," said JJ. Prentiss suddenly found herself on her feet, all eyes on her.

"Emily," JJ said, softly, "I didn't mean -"

"Excuse me," she muttered, hurrying from the room before anyone could notice the tears filling her eyes. She didn't go far, only halfway down the corridor, just out of reach of the interrogative lights of the bar, before she sat down with her back against the wall. She felt uncharacteristically shaken by the day's events, and she couldn't understand why; she had been in high stress situations before, but this one felt very different, and it scared her. Only a few seconds passed before she heard footsteps on the soft carpet, and she didn't even need to look up to know that it was Hotch standing beside her.

"Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have run out like that."

"Are you okay?" he asked, sitting down beside her, resting his arms on his bent knees and watching her carefully.

"There are 39 families who will never have peace because of me," she said quietly.

"Come on, Prentiss, you know that isn't true. Those families were broken the day Ford took their children. That isn't on you." She didn't say anything; she just continued to stare anxiously at the baseboard of the wall, chewing the inside of her lip. "And besides," Hotch continued, "if you hadn't taken the shot, you'd be planning my funeral right now, not sitting talking to me in the middle of the floor." She felt an half-hearted smile pull at her lips and she turned to look at Hotch, about to speak, but a spot of colour caught her eye.

"You're bleeding again," she said. He looked down at his shoulder where the blood was beginning to show through the gauze dressing wrapped firmly around his upper arm.

"Oh," he said, looking unconcerned. "The paramedics said I'd need to redress it, they gave me extra bandages to do it myself."

"Let me," she said. "I feel responsible." Hotch was about to argue but she cut across him. "Besides, you can't do it by yourself with one arm."

"Okay," he agreed, watching her warmly. "I left it all upstairs, I'll go get it."

"Don't worry about it, I'll come up," she said. "I was going to turn in soon anyway." Hotch stood and offered her his hand to help her to her feet, and they made their way upstairs. It took a few minutes to navigate their way through the long hallways to Hotch's room at the far end of the top floor. Hotch turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open for Prentiss. She stepped inside to see a brightly lit, spacious room, with an unlit fireplace on the wall opposite, and dark wood furniture to match the mantelpiece. A couch and a TV stood facing each other to the right, and another door led off to the bathroom on the left. Prentiss found the small bundle of gauze, bandages and tape sitting on the enormous king sized bed, and sat down on the perfectly smooth sheets, finding that her feet only just grazed the carpet from the tall mattress.

Hotch closed the door quietly behind him, and laid the key on a shiny mahogany table. She patted the space on her left and Hotch sat beside her, pushing his t-shirt sleeve up and over his shoulder so that she had easy access to undo the bandage. She kept glancing up at him to check for any signs of discomfort, worried that she might cause him even more pain than she had already. In the cool light of the bedroom she could see dark red and purple bruises forming in a ring across his neck where he had been dragged and nearly thrown from a balcony. In spite of his injuries, his expression barely changed as he watched her calmly, studying her face and then her hands as she pulled off the gauze, as if captivated. When she saw the wound, her guilt must have shown in her expression, because Hotch pulled his arm gently from her grasp for a moment.

"Prentiss, stop it," he said, holding her gaze firmly. "Either you shot Ford or he killed himself; it was a lose-lose situation. And as for this," he indicated his bloody arm, "this is nothing. I've had more painful injuries playing football with Jack." She sighed and smiled reluctantly.

"Sorry," she said.

"And stop apologising," he said.

"Sorry," she said again, this time with a little smirk. Hotch laughed and shifted back towards her so she could re-bandage the graze. He seemed to be able to read her mind, because the next words out of his mouth addressed the very thing she had been worrying about.

"We'll find some of the kids' bodies," he said. "Maybe not all of them, but we've got the profile, and we've still got to search Ford's house; we'll find something that'll lead us to the burial sites."

"I really hope so," she said, pulling the last piece of tape a little tighter and securing it. "There."

"Thank you," said Hotch, but then there was a silence as they looked at each other. Time seemed to slow again, but this time it wasn't out of fear. Hotch gazed at her, almost as if he wanted to say something else.

"What?" Prentiss asked.

"Nothing," Hotch said, shaking his head. "It's just, I was thinking how much you've changed in the last few years."

"Oh?" Prentiss said, unsure if that was a good thing.

"You've always been an incredible agent, Prentiss. But what you did today, shooting Ford under that kind of pressure… I don't think I could have done it."

"Sure you could," she said. "I've seen you do it, like last year in New Mexico."

"That was a different situation," Hotch insisted. "I kept a cool head because I was saving someone I didn't know; I could be objective. But if the roles were reversed today… if it had been you with the gun to your head, getting pulled over that balcony… God, Emily, I don't know what I would have done." She was a little taken aback to see the genuine fear in his eyes, and seeing the familiar expression, she realised why she had been so shaken by the events on the balcony. She reached out automatically and clasped her hand over his.

Then suddenly they were in darkness as the power lines gave up their fight against nature. They both fell silent and still and, now that she was blind in the dark, her other senses seemed to spike, and she was suddenly very aware of the feeling of Hotch's warm skin beneath her hand. She felt her skin prickle with electricity, every inch poised on the edge of reaction, waiting to feel something.

"Hotch?" she said, but her voice came out in a cracked whisper.

"Emily," he said, his low voice closer to her than she imagined. She found her hand moving up his arm, tentatively at first, feeling the soft material of his t-shirt covering his shoulder and his chest. She felt his breathing, and his hand on her arm as her fingers ran along his cheek, her thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. Then, from nowhere, she felt his hand on her face, and his lips on hers. Her reaction was instantaneous, as if her whole body had lit up; she slid her hands around the back of his neck, her fingertips reaching his hair, and then his arm was around her back. She pulled Hotch towards her until she was leaning back against the thick pillows, and she felt the mattress give as he climbed onto the bed.

And then suddenly they could see again. They drew apart slightly, blinking in the white light, but neither moved from their position. They were both a little breathless, frozen where they lay. Prentiss kept her eyes trained on Hotch's dark brown ones above her, hoping he wasn't about to change his mind now that the atmosphere of darkness was gone. She allowed her eyes to flicker down to his mouth, and that seemed to be all the prompting he needed to resume the kiss that had ended all to soon. The shuddering wind conquered the power lines for a final time and they were plunged into darkness once again.


	3. Shattered

At 7 a.m. the next morning, the team began to assemble in the hotel lobby. Prentiss was one of the first to arrive, and she settled down on one of the antique sofas to wait for the others. But now that she was alone, it didn't take long for the dark thoughts about Ford and his victim's families to creep into her mind, and she found herself biting her fingernails. Thankfully, she was joined shortly after by Morgan and Reid, and she was distracted from her worries by Reid's very complicated and very detailed explanation of why there was no need for them to have been afraid of the turbulence during the flight to South Dakota. By quarter past seven, Rossi, JJ and Hotch were still absent. Reid said Rossi had gone to the pool, Prentiss guessed JJ would still be in the shower, and as for Hotch, well, Prentiss knew exactly where he was.

"Where's Hotch?" asked Rossi, emerging from the corridor marked 'Pool & Sauna', his hair damp and a towel slung over his shoulder.

"No idea," Prentiss said, casually.

Rossi tossed his bag beside everyone else's and sat down on one of the plush red armchairs with a contented groan. While they waited, there was a constant high-pitched sound as the speeding wind whistled through a crack in the timeworn window. The power was back on at least, but the storm didn't seem to be lessening. A moment later, JJ joined them, dropping her bag onto the growing pile.

"Where did you get to last night?" she asked in hushed tones, almost immediately turning from the rest of the group and sitting next to Prentiss on the worn sofa.

"I just… I was in a different room," she said.

"And whose room was that exactly?" JJ asked with a grin.

"Never you mind," she said, although it was clear JJ knew exactly where she had been. Before she could say any more, Hotch came down the stairs, but as he passed the reception desk, he was called over by a woman who was holding out a piece of paper for him. They watched as Hotch took the piece of paper, read it, and thanked the receptionist.

"What's going on?" asked Rossi, as Hotch joined them.

"Bad news," he said, indicating the note in his hand. "We got a message from our pilot; the airports still aren't letting anything fly. Looks like we're going to be here for another night at least."

"Oh no," Prentiss said in mock concern.

"You're right, that's terrible news," Rossi said, raising his eyebrows at Prentiss. "I might have to spend the afternoon playing pool or… relaxing."

"Oh God, no," Morgan said with a grin. "You mean we have to enjoy ourselves?"

"Uh, couldn't we just drive?" Reid piped up.

"Reid, shut up," Morgan muttered out of the corner of his mouth and everyone laughed. Prentiss found her eyes drawn to Hotch as he smiled; it wasn't often she saw him content, and she always forgot how much she loved to see him smile.

"In all seriousness," Hotch said, addressing Reid, "the roads are still too dangerous. There are fallen trees, totalled cars, and all kinds of other debris everywhere. No one was expecting a storm of this magnitude, so they can barely keep up with the damage that's being done."

"Well in that case," Morgan said, slinging his go-bag over his shoulder, "I'm going to the gym."

"I'll join you," said JJ.

"Me too," said Prentiss, hoping that some exercise would stop her dwelling on Ford. She picked up her bag and was about to follow her friends, when she doubled back.

"Listen, Hotch," she started. He looked up at her and smiled, taking a step towards her.

"Hotch," came another, slightly more urgent voice, as Reid hurried over. "Detective Fuller wants to speak to you." Reid indicated the reception desk where the same receptionist was now holding out a telephone for him. Hotch looked over to Prentiss apologetically.

"It's not important," she said, "I'll catch up with you later." Hotch went to take the call, and Prentiss followed JJ and Morgan to the gym, but not without taking a last glance at Hotch.

* * *

A few hours later Prentiss left the changing room, feeling tired but content after her workout. She balled up her towel and stuffed it into her bag, not even looking where she was going as she rounded the corner to the reception and nearly collided with someone coming in the opposite direction.

"Woah, sorry," she said, looking up to find Hotch's face just inches from hers. She had to force down the memories from the night before that were pulled to the front of her mind by their proximity. His hands were still on her arms where he had stopped her walking face first into his chest, and he seemed to have forgotten what he had been on his way to do. "Uh… everyone's still in the pool," she said, stepping back at last.

"I was looking for you actually," he said.

"Oh?" Hotch's serious expression told her that something had happened with the case, and it pushed all her romantic feelings to the back of her mind again.

"Local P.D. have been searching Ford's house," he said, "and they found a lead for a potential burial site in Brewster, Nebraska. The cops down there checked it out and they've found thirteen bodies so far, but they're still digging. Looks like all of Ford's Nebraska victims are in the same mass grave."

"What about the kids he killed here?" she asked, both hopeful and anxious at the sudden possibility of finding all of Ford's victims.

"That's what I was coming to talk to you about. They haven't found any evidence of his South Dakota burial site yet. Detective Fuller asked us if we wanted to check out Ford's house for ourselves; we might see something the cops missed. I thought you'd want to go."

"I do," she said, immediately, determined to fix the consequences that had arisen from killing Ford. "Should I get the others?" As she spoke, she heard the sound of splashing water and laughing voices coming from the pool.

"No, they deserve a break," he said. "So do you for that matter, but I figured you'd want to see this one through."

"You figured right," she said.

* * *

It took them a long time to drive to Ford's house, creeping along the roads, swerving around fallen trees and totalled cars, the wind buffeting the SUV and the rain turning the windshield into a waterfall. At last they reached the house and Prentiss ran inside, closely followed by Hotch, but the second she stepped over the threshold, she was ankle deep in old clothes, boxes of paperwork, and piles of garbage.

"This is going to take a while," she muttered.

They made some space in the heap of refuse and spent several hours sifting through boxes upon boxes of old newspapers, unpaid bills, and junk mail, looking for anything that might give them a clue to a secluded location where Ford could have taken his victims. All around her, local cops were buzzing about, helping with the search, but Prentiss was deaf to the hum of voices and movement in the background as she searched, and she was only vaguely aware of Hotch watching her occasionally. All she could think about was finding the rest of the bodies, and letting thirty-nine mothers lay their children to rest.

The next time she looked up from the pile of papers in front of her, almost everyone was gone, and night had fallen. Only Detective Fuller and Hotch remained. Fuller was talking to someone on his phone, and when he hung up, he approached the agents.

"CSU just finished working the scene in Nebraska. They found twenty bodies in total. Every missing eight-year-old in Nebraska was in that grave, not just the ones he actually took credit for." Prentiss turned to Hotch.

"If Ford was telling the truth about having 39 victims, we still have nineteen more to find," she said. "All we need to do is work out where his secondary location is in South Dakota and we might actually find them all."

"I know. But not tonight," Hotch said, gently, putting down his pile of paperwork. "We can come back in the morning." Prentiss just shook her head.

"I need to finish this, Hotch," she said. "I need to find them. Besides, I won't be able to sleep anyway. You can just go, I'll catch up with you tomorrow." She turned to tell Detective Fuller she was staying when she felt Hotch's hand stop her and turn her to face him.

"I'm not going anywhere, Emily," he said, his hand lingering on her arm. "Not without you." She found she couldn't meet his eyes because whenever she did, the mess of emotions she was so expertly repressing threatened to overcome her. Nevertheless she managed a grateful smile, and they sat back down to continue the search.

At 4 a.m., only Hotch and Prentiss remained, and she sat flipping through a photo album that contained pictures of Ford and his family from the 80s and 90s. As she turned the pages, she began to notice the same old, weather-beaten cabin appearing again and again, with Ford and his father standing outside. In every photo, Ford looked roughly a year older, and increasingly unhappy. The photos continued until Ford looked about sixteen, and then the rest of the pages were blank. No more father.

"Hotch," she said, holding out the album to him. "Have the cops checked this cabin?"

"They didn't know there was a cabin," said Hotch.

"This has to be it, right? A secluded location with some kind of childhood significance to Ford."

"It could be," he said. Prentiss practically leapt to her feet, grabbing the keys to the SUV in one hand, and dialling Detective Fuller's number with the other.

"Detective Fuller?" she said. "I think I know where the kids are buried."

* * *

It took the cadaver dogs less than a minute to find the patch of freshly overturned earth amongst the trees outside the cabin. CSU descended on the scene with practised swiftness, set up tents to protect them from the driving rain, and within an hour they had uncovered the second grave.

Prentiss looked down into the rectangular pit, the harsh floodlights distorting the shapes below, creating long shadows amongst white flashes of bone, and bright coloured patches of degrading jeans, dresses, and shirts. She wasn't sure how long she stood there, looking at the small bodies that gave way to smaller skeletons beneath. This was what she had wanted, she had wanted to find their bodies, but now that she was looking down at them, it didn't feel like a victory. She felt Hotch's familiar presence appear by her side, looking down into the mass grave.

"How many are there?" she asked, flatly.

"CSU estimate about fourteen," Hotch said, his voice barely audible over the constant roar of the rain on the plastic canopy above them.

"Then we're still missing five," she said. "There are five more bodies somewhere, Hotch. We have to find them."

"We don't know that for sure," he said. "We can worry about that once CSU have finished working the scene. In the meantime, we can't do any more here. You need some rest. Let's go." She wanted to resist, she had to make sure they found every last one of Ford's victims, she owed the families that much. When she tried to argue, however, she found that her throat was tight and there were tears in her eyes, but she didn't know if it was from exhaustion, relief, or disappointment. Without another word, Hotch put a hand on her back and guided her away from the grave and back to the SUV.

By the time they had driven back to the hotel, the cool morning sunlight was just beginning to filter through the tall pine trees. When they walked into the lobby, Rossi was sitting in the corner with a book in his hand.

"Where have you two been?" he asked, mildly. "You look like crap."

"We found Ford's victims," Prentiss said, without really looking up.

"All of them?" he asked in surprise.

"We don't know yet," Hotch said. "We need to wait for CSU to pull the bodies out."

"Where were they?" Rossi asked.

"It's a long story," said Hotch, glancing at Prentiss. "Do you mind if we fill you in later?"

"Sure," Rossi said, "you should get some rest. I'll let the rest of the team know, we were starting to worry about you."

"Sorry," said Hotch. "I left you messages."

"No signal," Rossi said, indicating his phone.

They left Rossi and walked up the stairs together in silence; Prentiss's legs felt heavy and she was beginning to wish she hadn't gone to the gym the day before. They reached her room, half way along the top floor corridor, but Prentiss hesitated at the door for a moment.

"You know, I've been awake for..." she checked her watch, "twenty-six hours, but I still don't think I could sleep."

"We closed the case, Emily," said Hotch. "I know finding that amount of bodies doesn't feel like a win, but you made a terrible situation just a little less terrible for the victim's families. And sometimes that's all we can do."

"I know," she said, although she could tell her voice wasn't convincing. "I just can't stop thinking about it. What if there aren't thirty-nine bodies in those graves? What if he's hidden some elsewhere, and we can't find them?"

"We'll find them," he said, plainly. "Whatever it takes." She nodded and reached out for the door handle, but realised that she didn't want to go inside to the quiet room, because she knew she would just lie awake, worrying, seeing the images of the graves projected on the ceiling.

"Listen," Hotch said, evidently noticing her reluctance, "I don't think I can sleep either. But if you want some company, we can talk some more about the case if you'd like?"

"I'd like that," she said. "You got any scotch in your minibar?"

Hotch laughed. "Yes. But it's 9 a.m."

"We haven't even been to bed yet. It doesn't count. And besides, I think we've earned it, don't you?"

Hotch smiled. "Come on then," he said, and they continued along the corridor to his room. Prentiss sat down on the rather familiar bed as Hotch drew the curtains and switched on a lamp, blocking out the cold grey light from the stormy sky and creating a warm glow in the large room. Prentiss sat with her back against the footboard, and Hotch handed her a glass of scotch before settling himself opposite her at the top of the bed, propped up slightly against the pillows.

"How do you do it?" she asked, taking a long sip of her drink and feeling instantly warmer.

"Do what?"

"Get through cases like this, especially when you've got a son. It was hard enough for me and I don't even have kids."

"You just… compartmentalise I suppose," he said, placing his own scotch on the nightstand as he looked at her thoughtfully. "For years after Hayley died I was terrified that something was going to happen to Jack too, but as time went by I realised that I was spending so much of my time worrying about what might happen, and I was missing what was actually happening right in front of me."

"Who would have thought it?" Prentiss said, managing a dry smile. "Aaron Hotchner: king of healthy coping mechanisms."

She drained her glass and handed it to Hotch, who sat it next to his own with an amused sigh. Just as he placed the glass down, his phone vibrated on the table.

"It's from Detective Fuller," he said, picking up his phone and scanning the message. "It's the names of all the kids they found in both graves." Prentiss moved swiftly to the top of the bed to sit next to Hotch and read the list on the screen. He scrolled down slowly as they both counted the names of the murdered eight-year-olds. They got to the end, and looked at each other.

"Thirty-nine," Prentiss said.

"Thirty-nine," Hotch confirmed. "We found them all, Emily." Prentiss breathed a shaky sigh of relief and rested her head on Hotch's shoulder. He texted a quick thank you to the detective before placing his phone back down.

"It's been a hell of a week," he said with a relieved sigh, shifting further down into the pillows, but a few seconds passed and she didn't reply. He glanced down to see that she was already fast asleep, her head still resting on his chest, her expression calm and content for the first time all day. He smiled and lay down, put his arm around Prentiss and followed her quickly into sleep.

* * *

That night, Prentiss felt more relaxed than she had in months as she sat in an armchair by the fire, a glass of wine in her hand. After a long, and very comfortable sleep, she was looking back on the day's events in a more positive light, and what was more, she was getting to spend time with her friends without the weight of a case hanging over their heads. Everyone looked as content as she felt as they sat in the grand hotel bar, listening to Rossi regale them with a tale from his younger days.

"So anyway, I called Detective Ramirez, and I said -"

"Hold on a minute," Morgan said, cutting across Rossi. "They had _phones_ when you were twenty-five? Wasn't that like… the mid-eighteenth century?" Rossi gave an exaggerated laugh.

"You're hilarious, kiddo," he said. "As I was saying, I called the detective to tell him what I'd found and he asked me to drive over."

"Woah." It was Prentiss who interrupted this time. "They had _cars_ back then?" Hotch met her eye with a smile, and Rossi took a sip of his scotch, half-amused, half-exasperated.

"Are you going to let me finish the story or not?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "Or am I going to have to send you kids to bed early?" Morgan glanced at Prentiss with a look that said he was definitely not going to let Rossi finish, but before they could tease him anymore, one of the receptionists approached them.

"Agent Morgan?" she asked, looking around to see who might respond.

"That's me," said Morgan.

"I've got a Penelope Garcia on the phone for you. She says it's urgent."

They all watched Morgan as he left the bar. Prentiss leaned slightly over the back of her chair so she could see out into the lobby, where Morgan was standing, grinning as he listened to whatever Garcia was telling him. A moment later he re-entered, but didn't resume his seat.

"We've got a flight back to Virginia in two hours," he said. "They just reopened the airport and we're first to fly out." Everyone gave a reluctant groan.

"Okay," Hotch sighed, standing up at last with a look of resignation. "Let's go home."


	4. Home

Prentiss was quiet as she sat on the airplane, looking around at her teammates. Although the plane was still rattling and dipping with the turbulence, no one looked concerned anymore, perhaps due to Reid's constant stream of facts about the improbability of a crash, but also no doubt due to their newfound relaxation. JJ and Reid were playing cards and Reid was growing increasingly confused and irritable as JJ won game after game. Morgan was sitting next to JJ with a dogeared copy of _Slaughterhouse 5_ in his hand, occasionally making teasing comments to Reid, and slipping JJ the winning cards when Reid wasn't looking. Prentiss smiled at the trio, but her smile dropped when her eyes moved over to Hotch and Rossi who were talking quietly and seriously in the corner. The lighthearted expression that had been on Hotch's face for most of the weekend was gone, and Prentiss felt like that signified the end: the end of the case, the end of their short break from the stress of the BAU, the end of their brief relationship, if it could even be called that.

The team had only been there for two full days, but Prentiss had become strangely attached the grand hotel with its high ceilings, long corridors and roaring fires. It was a novel sensation for her; she had moved around so much in her youth that she never let herself feel at home anywhere, always poised on the precipice of moving on, ready to uproot her life with as little emotional trauma as possible.

But the hotel felt different; it was a place where the typical rules didn't seem to apply, a place where it was acceptable to sleep with your Unit Chief, and fall asleep in his arms after a difficult case without any awkwardness or even talking about what it might mean. It was especially strange how right it had all felt. And now that she was leaving that wonderful little bubble, all she could feel was regret, and an anxious knot in her stomach at the prospect of having to face up to the real, and potentially rather awkward consequences.

* * *

They were back in the bureau by 7 o'clock that night; most of the team only stopped long enough to drop off their go-bags and check their e-mails before they left again, but Erin Strauss had demanded that Prentiss and Hotch stay behind to write up the case.

Prentiss sat at her desk in the deserted department with her elbow resting on the table and her head in her hand. Her right hand was beginning to ache with the amount of writing she had been doing in the last two hours. Both she and Hotch were expected to give comprehensive reports on the entire case, paying special attention to the part where Prentiss nearly shot Hotch and he almost fell to his death from a sixth-storey balcony. Recalling the details wasn't an issue however; the wind was rising in Quantico too, as if the storm had followed them home, and every time a gust of wind drove the rain noisily into the windows, Prentiss was transported to the balcony, vivid images of the ordeal flashing in front of her eyes. She could hear the wind whipping through the empty windows, feel her heart pounding painfully against her ribs, the cold panic as she saw Hotch begin to fall… Every so often she would look up to Hotch's office where he was sitting, poring over his own report, his hand rubbing his forehead, and the fear would leave her again. But soon after, the sound of the worsening weather became too distracting, so she gathered up her notes in her arms and climbed the few stairs to Hotch's office, knocking softly on the door.

"Can I come in?"

"Of course," he said. "I was actually about to come and ask you something." He gestured for her to sit across from him and he resumed his seat behind the desk.

"Shoot," she said.

"I'm trying to fill out this report," he said, "but there's one part I can't account for."

"Which part?" she asked.

"Well, the last thing I remember was you taking the shot, and I felt Ford's blood running down my back. Next thing I know, Ford's gone and I'm on the other side of the balcony."

"You're only missing a few seconds," Prentiss said, opening her file to read her unadorned account verbatim from the page, worried that if she began to describe it in her own words, the vivid images would submerge her again. "Basically, I took the shot, Ford fell back, pulling you with him, I grabbed you and he went over. You were only unconscious for five, maybe ten seconds tops."

But he didn't seem to be really listening and Prentiss had the feeling that that hadn't been what he had wanted to ask her at all. He was looking at her with his pen unmoving on the paper, and opened his mouth to speak, but Prentiss wanted to get the first word in.

"Listen, about the other night," she said hastily. "We'd both had a rough day, and then there was the storm and the power outage and it just sort of happened and -"

"Would you like to go to dinner with me?" he asked, interrupting her directionless gushing.

"I, um…" She was fully expecting him to say the whole thing had been a mistake and that it shouldn't happen again, so it took her a few seconds of blank staring to process what he had said.

"Look, I was as surprised by what happened the other night as you were," he said. "And yes, we'd had a rough day, but that doesn't mean that it was meaningless or a mistake." He leaned forward across the desk. "Emily, I care about you, and I don't want to go back to just having a professional relationship, because that night was…"

"Amazing," she finished with a laugh, looking down at the desk and trying to stop her cheeks from flushing at the far more pleasant memories that were now flashing through her mind.

"I'm not saying we need to jump into anything," he said, "but maybe we could see where this goes?"

"I'd like that," she said.

"So, dinner?"

"Yes," she said, but then she remembered Strauss's deadline. "What about the reports?"

"We'll come back and finish them later," he said, standing up and taking the file from her hand. The wind moaned and the lights flickered for a moment, and Prentiss found herself smiling at the memory of their night in the hotel.

"You think we'll have another power outage?" Hotch asked, looking up at the square office lights.

"Wouldn't be the worst thing in the world," Prentiss smiled. He took her hand in his and they walked together to the elevator. As they stepped inside, she glanced at Hotch, and she realised that the sense of happiness and safety she had felt in the hotel hadn't been a result of their location, because she felt the same way in the elevator as she had in the hotel: like she had come home. Hotch pressed the button for the ground floor and turned to face her with a small smile and look in his eyes that told her there was no way in hell Strauss was getting her reports that night.

* * *

 **A/N Well that's it for now! I really hope you enjoyed this short little fic. Please leave a review if you did. I might continue it at some point if I can create something I'm happy with, but for now - thank you and bye! C x**


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